The Fall
by LowkeyLyesmiths
Summary: A young Valjean is laid up in a hospital with a broken leg when he meets a young boy named Michel. Or, the one where Valjean meets lil' Javert and their story goes the same way but ends up in a different place.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **this will probably be a blend of musical/film and book canon (I'm rereading the brick atm so until then do point out any glaring flaws) Evidently this is rather au. Feedback would be awesome!

Inspired loosely by the film 'The Fall' go watch it. It's amazing.

If I owned Les Mis my laptop would not be held together by sellotape.

**TW for child abuse.**

* * *

The boy was small for his age, at least Valjean thought he was, thought he must be. He looked to be about seven but he spoke too well, far too well, to be seven. He stood at the foot of Valjean's bed, his arm in a cast and sling, with bruises on his face and a cut on his cheek, he looked like he'd been through a war. His skin was darker than most Frenchmen, his eyes were a soft grey colour and there was a spot of what looked like jam on his pale hospital shirt. But still, he stood, his free hand on his hip eyeing Valjean as though he were a criminal.

"You're not a child," he said accusatorially and Valjean noticed he had lost his two front teeth. "I thought this hospital was for children."

Valjean smiled at him, "It's not only for children." He gestured around the empty room, "This is the adults ward." Truthfully though, the hospital was mainly for children, it had only recently been given an adult's ward. Valjean had the pleasure of being the first adult patient.

The boy frowned, "You're the only one in here. Why?"

"Guess I'm the only adult silly enough to get hurt, huh?" Valjean said, wriggling his bandaged leg. "You're the first person I've spoken to that doesn't work here."

The boy eyed Valjean's leg scornfully, "What happened?" He asked, nudging it.

Valjean sighed. The boy may look mature but he doesn't need to know that there are people who will set their dogs on you if you don't pay your debt back quickly enough. "I fell." He said.

"That was silly of you," the boy said very seriously.

Valjean chuckled, "It was indeed. How did you hurt your arm?"

"I fell," He said, cheeks reddening. "But its okay for _me_ to fall 'cause I'm still a kid."

"I see."

The boy studied him for a few minutes before glancing around the empty room. "Can I sit in here? My room is noisy, it's all little kids and there's a baby that won't stop crying."

"Don't you want to play with the other kids?"

"I'm not a kid," he said with such venom that Valjean couldn't help but laugh quietly.

"You look like a kid to me."

"No," the boy protested, "I am eight. Not a child!"

Valjean smiled, "My apologies."

The boy's mouth twisted and he looked down at his feet, "I don't like them much." Which Valjean took to mean they don't like me much. "Of course you may."

The boy gave him a weak smile and turned to scamper out of the ward, he heard him run along the corridor, presumably back to his own ward. A few moments later he returned, a book tucked under his good arm. He flashed Valjean a small smile and clambered on to the empty cot beside him, pulling the heavy book in to his lap. Valjean leant over; the book was a beautifully illustrated children's bible, he flicked through the pages, tracing some of the words with his fingers, his lips moving silently as he sounded out the words. He didn't look like a wealthy child, in fact his presence in this very hospital proofed that he was not, that meant he probably had a very patchy education.

"Can you read?" He asked the boy, as delicately as possible.

The boy glared at him and Valjean bit back a laugh, for such a tiny thing he made a good show of being ferocious. But them the boy's face crumpled and he sighed, "No, not really," he said mournfully. "My mama used to read it to me, I remember some of the stories from the pictures."

"You know," Valjean said, "I could read it to you."

The boy's face brightened momentarily but something flickered across his grey gaze and his eyes narrowed suspiciously, "You won't try and take it will you?"

Valjean smiled, "Why would I do that?"

"There was this one boy who tried. He was a whole five years older than me but I made him give it back." He said, throwing his chest out proudly. "He hit me though." He gestured to the cut on his cheek. "But I didn't cry."

"I bet you didn't," he held out a hand for the book.

"You promise you won't steal it?"

He laughed, "I promise."

Still the boy hesitated, "I'm not supposed to speak to strangers."

_Ah. _Valjean turned his outstretched hand to the side, "My name is Jean."

The boy took his hand and shook it vigorously, "Michel." He said with a tentative smile.

"Very nice to meet you, Michel," Valjean nodded, he picked up the book from where Michel had left it on the bed. "Where do you want me to start?" When Michel shrugged Valjean smiled, "How about we start from the start?"

It became a ritual for them, Michel would scamper into his room at around midday and Valjean would read to him (and teach him to read) and then Michel would leave at dinner time. It was a nice break from the loneliness, the Sisters and the doctor who, though friendly, were much too busy to spend more than a few minutes with him at a time. His sister came when she could which wasn't often. He'd gained a ward-mate, an older man named Tomas, but he wasn't much very good company, years on the street had made him bitter and irritable. Valjean understood, it was stressful enough living with his sister and her children in a one room flat, he couldn't imagine living on the streets. His leg meant he couldn't move around much either so Michel was a godsend.

It only took him a few days to read through the bible Michel had and since then he'd been teaching the boy to write. Michel was a bright boy which was lucky since Valjean didn't hold much stock in his teaching abilities. He'd been learning bits and pieces about his new friend too, Michel had even shown him the brightly coloured tarot cards his mother had given him.

"Are you a father, Jean?" Michel asked one day when they were working on grammar.

Valjean blinked and laughed, of all the questions to be asked! "No, I'm not old enough yet. Maybe one day though."

Michel poked at his stubbly beard with suspicion, "You _look_ old enough."

"Why _thank you,_" he chuckled. "No, I'm only eighteen, maybe that's in my future."

"Oh," Michel nodded. "So that lady who comes sometimes with the loud baby, she's not your wife?"

"You've seen her?" Valjean was faintly surprised, Michel had always been conspicuously absent when Jeanne visited. "She's my sister, why didn't you come say hi?"

Michel wriggled uncomfortably, "I hid," he admitted quietly. "I don't think she'd like me very much."

Valjean put a hand on the boy's shoulder to hold him still, "Why wouldn't she like you, Michel?"

Michel shrugged, steadfastly avoiding Valjean's eyes, "I don't know," he mumbled. "It doesn't matter." Valjean waited for a few moments until Michel sighed, clenching his tiny fists on the sheet, "The other kids don't like me and my uncle... He says I'm a bad kid."

Valjean's heart broke a little for him, he gripped Michel gently by the shoulder, turning the boy to face him. "You're not a bad kid, Michel. I like you. The sisters like you. Your mama likes you. Hm?"

Michel sniffed, "I guess."

"Michel," he said firmly. "There is nothing wrong with you, okay?"

A smile ghosted across Michel's lips, "Okay." He said quietly.

"Now lets get back to writing shall we?"

Michel watched him for a few more minutes, "I think," he said thoughtfully. "That you would be a good father."

Valjean grinned, "Thank you."

"Now here," he said, pushing the scrap of paper towards Michel. "What does that say?"

Michel glanced down at it briefly, "Don't know." He mumbled, pushing it back.

Valjean frowned, Michel had been on edge to day, distracted, almost clingy. "You do you know," he insisted, tapping the row of words. "What does that say?"

Michel fidgeted, "I don't care," he muttered, scrambling across to press himself into Valjean's side. "Tell me a story instead."

Valjean twisted slightly so that he could see the boy's face, "What's the matter with you today?" He asked, smoothing a few wayward dark locks from Michel's face. He didn't look ill, he hadn't acquired any new bumps or bruises nor had the sister's hadn't mentioned him being particularly naughty as of late.

"Monsieur Le Docteur," he said quietly. "He says I can go home soon."

"Oh, Michel, that's wonderful!" Valjean smiled but Michel shook his head vigorously.

"I like it better here! You'll be all alone if I leave..."

Valjean clucked sympathetically, "Do not worry about me." He said, smiling encouragingly. "I'll be fine, I'm a grown-up remember?"

Michel swallowed, "But..." He looked away again, burying his face in Valjean's side. He was trembling, Valjean realised with a jolt. He manoeuvred Michel gently so that they were sitting face to face, "Michel, what's wrong?"

Michel looked down, balling his fists in Valjean's shirt front, his jaw was clenched. "I do not wish to go home."

"Why ever not? Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman."

Michel had told him of how she sang to him, how she taught him the constellations and their stories. His grip had tightened almost painfully, "She was not a good woman," he hissed, grey eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Valjean took a steadying breath, he had never seen the young boy cry, not even when his arm had had to be rebroken because it had set wrong. "Michel," he said gently, "Michel, what aren't you telling me?"

Michel buried his face in Valjean's shirt, "My mama is dead. The bad men killed her." His little voice broke.

"Oh," Valjean said, tightening his hold on the boy. "Oh, oh. I am so sorry. Who do you live with then?" He asked, rubbing soothing circles into Michel's back. He had never mentioned a father, Valjean had assumed that like so many kids these days he didn't know his father.

"My uncle," Michel murmured. "He is not a good man either. I _hate_ him." As soon as the words were out of his mouth Michel froze, pushing away and scrambling to sit up. "Don't tell him," he whispered, eyes wide with fear. "Please, don't tell him. He'd be so angry, _so angry_."

"Why would I...?" Valjean began but his eyes fell on the cast on Michel's arm and a sick idea clenched at his heart. "Michel," he began very softly. "Your uncle, did he... Did he do _that_?"

Michel leapt back as if stung, "N-no," he stammered. "I fell down. It was an accident. I'm a clumsy child...a clumsy child..."

Valjean's heart broke, his stomach lurched. It was not uncommon for a father to hit his child, it was far _too_ common for Valjean's liking actually, but to _break_ a child's arm? That should amount to violent assault at the least. "Michel, it's okay," he said softly, sitting up and reaching out to touch Michel's shoulder. He flinched as Valjean's fingers met his shoulder. "Michel, it's okay. I won't say anything to him, I won't let him hurt you."

Michel pulled away from his grip, "What can you do?" He spat. "You're just a cripple!"

"My leg will get better," Valjean protested, "I swear Michel, I will find a way to stop him hurting you."  
Michel scrubbed at his eyes, looking up at Valjean through his fingers. "You promise?"

This time when Valjean reached out to him he didn't flinch away, he pulled the boy back onto the bed and held him close, "I promise." He murmured. "I promise."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** thanks for the feedback! you guys are awesome. sorry this is so short!

* * *

It was only after Michel had left that evening (at the nurse's insistence) that Valjean realised what he had promised. Before he had been too caught up in the boy's terror, in the rumble of anger in his chest and the sickening realisation of what Michel's broken arm had meant.

There was no way Valjean could take him in; they had barely enough for themselves as it was and to add another, particularly to add another_growing_ boy to their family. Besides, with his leg in this way and the black mark of a debt unpaid to his name, finding work would be nigh on impossible. He could see about getting the child in to the care of a parish somewhere but he knew even before he had been told by the boy's olive skin that he had gypsy blood in him. He would have to travel far to find someone willing to take him in without a pretty payment.

And then there was the problem of the uncle. Surely if the man didn't want him he could have just left him to the mercies of the street, lord knows it happened often enough. Valjean had no control over Michel, short of kidnapping him and fleeing the city (even if he doubted anyone would come after him) what could he do?

He sighed and rolled slightly to rest on his side. The ward was almost pitch black, the only light was that of the flickering candles out in the hallway and the soft silver light the poured through the window behind his bed. In the dark it was easy to imagine Michel's uncle as some sort of demon, tall and towering and dark. He wondered idly whether the uncle is Michel's mother's brother, whether he has the same dark skin and hard grey eyes. If he did it would be easy to imagine him terrifying a small child.

Maybe it had been an accident. The arm. Maybe his uncle had simply tugged him too hard to prevent him falling out of a window or something. Children muddled things, exaggerated them all the time, didn't they? His sister's children certainly did.

But not Michel. Michel was too bright to misinterpret something like that and he wouldn't out right lie about it. Lying it seemed was not Michel's strong suit, the few times he'd tried Valjean had been able to tell by the amount he wriggled.

He growled.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

"And after that?"

"Ninety-one," Michel said with a triumphant grin. They had sped through the alphabet and Michel had a good enough grasp on grammar and spelling to be getting on with (well in Valjean's highly uneducated opinion anyway) so he had moved on to counting.

The boy was sat on Valjean's bed as usual but he had his back to Valjean today and was busily scribbling away on a piece of scrap paper as Valjean tested him. Valjean had noticed a slightly pinkish spot where the neck line of Michel's shirt hung loose. If he leant forward he could see that the spot wasn't a spot at all. It was a long puckered scar that disappeared underneath the shirt.

The kind of scar Valjean had only ever seen on convicts and slaves.

Valjean swallowed the anger rising in his body. He needed to do _something_ to get Michel away from his uncle.

Michel hummed as he drew, an odd tune Valjean had never heard.

"Michel?" He asked cautiously, "Do you know your father?"

Michel glanced over his shoulder at Valjean and shook his head. "I never met him. He was a prisoner."

"A prisoner?"

Michel nodded, "Mama was in the prison too. She says she was only in there because of who she was but my uncle... He says she was a bad woman. He says she was a," he glanced around nervously as though afraid of being overheard but the only two other ward occupants were fast asleep. "A _whore_." He finished, sounding a little disgusted.

Valjean stiffened a little, he held no illusions about childhood anymore, he knew it was rough for most but still, there was this odd ache in his heart for this angry little boy. He put a comforting hand on Michel's shoulder, "Do you know what that word means Michel?"

Michel nodded stiffly.  
Valjean sighed and for a moment there was silence then Michel poked at his bound up leg. "When will you be able to go home?" Michel asked.

"Hopefully soon, my sister and her kids could really use my help."

Michel turned to him, "Do you have a job?"

_Ah._ Valjean thought about lying, after all Michel seemed to have an understandable preoccupation with the law. He _had_ had a job of a sorts before all this debtor business as a labourer but he'd been let go fairly quickly after his little mishap. "Not at the present time, no."

Michel frowned, his bright eyes narrowing. "So how do you make money?"

"Well I...I work odd jobs. Wherever I'm needed." He said carefully.

Michel sagged a little, as though in relief. "Oh, that's okay then. I can work too, when I get out and I don't have to go back with my uncle. He'd never let me. Or he'd take all the money for himself and spend it at the tavern." He reached up and rubbed at his nose inelegantly.

Valjean sighed.

"They said I could leave the day after tomorrow," Michel said, his voice shaking slightly. He waved his arm, it was still bandaged but the cast had been removed. He bit his lip and hesitantly met Valjean's eyes. The unspoken question hung heavily between them.

Valjean smiled as reassuringly as possible, "I'm working on it." He said.

Michel grinned.

The doctor sighed, "I am sorry Monsieur, but you must understand there is nothing I can do."

Valjean bristled, "The man _broke_ his _arm_. He's eight."

"Allegedly," the doctor cut in coolly. "What would you have me do? Have this man arrested? There is no proof of what you say happened, the boy may have fallen. Or he may have been in a fight with another child, empirical evidence would suggest that is strong possibility. Besides, it is not against the law to discipline a child, especially one as boisterous as Michel."

"There is a difference between _discipline_ and assault." Valjean growled.

"You may have noticed from the boy's dark features that he has some gypsy blood in him and their race does have a penchant for trickery, do they not? Perhaps he's simply lying because he doesn't get along well with his uncle. He was, after all only permitted to stay in this hospital because of his uncle's support."

"He's a _child_," Valjean repeated. "He deserves to be somewhere he isn't terrified every minute of every day,"

The doctor sat back a small smile playing across his face, "Monsieur, I admire your guile, I do, but that boy's uncle is a man of great standing in the merchant world and _you_ are nothing but a common vagrant; You are free to do as you please but be advised you will find now support from me. Now if you'll excuse me I have sick people to attend to."

Valjean swore. The doctor had been his last idea. He knew if asked Jeanne to take Michel she would do but she would never be able to support him alongside her sons, they had been living on scraps and the food Valjean (and a few of the nurses) had been saving for them from his hospital meals. He stood unsteadily and snatched up the old crutches leant up against his chair to limp back to his ward.

He supposed he could always just take his chances, teach Michel to steal. He thought about the mark on Michel's back (in his mind there were a whole network of scars criss crossing and overlapping) and knew that in itself would be a challenge. Michel seemed to see him as some sort of role model could he really destroy that? But If he couldn't support him what happen? They would all starve. And there would come a time when Valjean would need to choose between Michel and his nephews and he didn't think he could make that choice. There was no one else to take him and even if there was Michel's uncle would still be a problem.

By now he had reached the ward and one of sister's rushed to help him struggle back into bed. Once they had managed it and the sister had left Valjean fisted a hand through his hair and growled in frustration.

There was this voice in his head, this dark little voice, the one that had always been there, that hissed that he should just leave Michel. Who was this boy to him truly? Just a gypsy boy with a broken arm. A means to an end (_your only friend here, the only one who talks to you_) Michel wasn't his family. Wasn't his responsibility. Wasn't anything to him.

If he brought Michel with him he was dooming the boy to a life of hunger on the streets, dooming his nephews to even less food. If he took Michel the boy's uncle might just take him back. Could he really offer Michel a better life? His uncle may be harsh but Michel had a home, protection from the stigma of his gypsy blood, food (even if judging by the boy's skinny frame the portions were meagre.)

There was nothing he could do, the voice said. And there was nothing he _needed_ to do.

(Even if he knew his resolve would crumble as soon as he saw Michel the next day.)


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: **the bad writing saga continues. Yes, this one is short I lost a whole chunk when my ipad glitched out :L

unbeta'd!

By the by, I'm using a traditional tarot deck for this fic since I can't actually find a detailed French-Gypsy one (if such a thing exists) but if anyone can advise me that'd be great :) Also, I'm not sure if being a debtor _was _a crime in France at the time, it certainly was on the decline in the rest of Europe but hey, it's a fanfic, right?

* * *

"Well I suppose there really isn't anything you can do," Jeanne said sorrowfully. "If we cannot afford to keep him..."

He knew that she wouldn't hesitate if he asked her to take the boy in. He knew that they wouldn't make it if he did. She touched his hand, "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," he murmured. "I don't _know._"

Jeanne shook her head sadly, "If we had more money... If I hadn't lost my job at the factory... If you hadn't been injured..."

Their whole life had been a string of "ifs"; _if _their parents hadn't died, _if _Jeanne's husband hadn't died, _if _he had the education for a better paying job, _if if if. _Valjean was sick of ifs. He clenched his fists on top of the bed sheets. "I can't do nothing, Jeanne."

She sighed and shook her head sadly, "Jean, what _can _you do? You have spoken to the doctor and you know the church won't take him. Maybe being with his uncle is for the best. He will be fed and clothed and you say he is a merchant? Perhaps one day he'll have a steady job."

"I know," he said quietly. "I know. But I cannot simply leave him, Jeanne. The man _broke _his _arm._"

Jeanne's grip tightened a fraction on the toddler on her lap. "I know." For a moment they lapsed in to silence and then she asked quietly, "Jean, I'll take him if you want, you know I will, don't you?"

"I would not ask that of you."

She patted his arm, "I have to go. The other children will be wondering where I am."

* * *

Michel materialised almost as soon as Jeanne had left. The boy grinned at him, he'd lost one of his two front teeth; it was absurdly sweet. _How am I to leave him with that man? He will be ruined. _He scrabbled up on to the bed, "Your sister looked nice today."

"You can always come and meet her, you know," Valjean said tiredly, shuffling over to make room for Michel.

"Yes," Michel nodded, pulling out a few pieces of paper and looking at Valjean expectantly.

Valjean handed him a ready inked pen, "So why don't you?"

Michel was already scribbling, practising signing his name over and over. "Hm?"

"Why don't you come out and meet my sister next time?"

Michel bit his lip, Valjean could see the conflict in his eyes; to lie or not to lie. "She might not like me." He said eventually.

Valjean smiled and ruffled his hair _this again_, "Of course she'll like you."

Michel seemed satisfied with this assurance "How many children does she have?" He asked, tracing his fingers across the scrawled words.

"Seven."

Michel's eyes widened, "_Seven_?"

He laughed, "Yes, seven."

"You must have a big house. My uncle's house is big but I'm not allowed to go in most of the rooms, just my one and the kitchen."

Valjean snorted theirs, a big house?

Michel looked up at him, "Will there be room for me?" He asked quietly.

Valjean swallowed, "Yes."

_This will never work._

* * *

When Michel scampered in the next day Valjean slid his smile into place; Michel would be leaving in a few days, he couldn't stop Michel's uncle taking him he had no right and his leg was still in a bad way. But he'd do all he could once he was out of the hospital, he had to.

Valjean sat up straighter and leant over to the bedside table, he'd asked one of the friendlier nurses if she could procure a new book for Michel to practise reading. It was a collection of fairy stories, heavy and old and crumbling; pages were missing and torn in places but it was at least something. He grinned, holding the book up to the boy, "Look what I've got."

But instead of the gleeful grin he'd expected Michel was staring at him strangely, Valjean's smile faltered. "Is there something wrong, Michel?"

"There's a new boy on the ward. Lucien," Michel said in a carefully measured tone, his grey eyes searching Valjean's face. "He says he knows you, you and your sister. He says you hurt leg running away from dogs. He said you jumped down some stairs trying to escape. Is that true?"

Valjean closed his eyes briefly, "Yes."

"Why were the dogs chasing you?"

Valjean swallowed, there was no point in laying to Michel, he'd find out eventually. "I owed that man some money and I couldn't pay. He got upset." Michel nodded, a gesture Valjean assumed meant that he should continue. "He set his dogs on me when I couldn't pay."

Michel's eyes were very wide, "Are you a debtor?"

"No," Valjean said firmly. It had only been a little money, enough to tide them over for the winter months when work was scarce, he hadn't counted on the winter being so long though. "I'll pay him back as soon as I'm out of here." Summer was fast approaching, there would be orchards and farms needing help and then Autumn and the harvest. They would be alright, until winter came again at least. They had to be. "Don't worry, Michel." He smiled.

Michel swallowed, "He said other things too."

"Oh?"

Michel sighed heavily and looked up at Valjean with a long, dark look. "He said your house is tiny. That you don't have room for those who already live there." He studied Valjean's face and dropped his gaze, "You're a debtor and you're poor."

"Being poor is not a crime."

"No," Michel said quietly. "But being a debtor is. And if you're poor you will not be able to feed us all. My uncle has money at least..." When he looked back up his eyes were damp. "My uncle is coming tomorrow, I won't be going home with you, will I?"

Valjean stammered, he could not lie to the boy - what would the point be in that? "I'll come for you," he said weakly. "As soon as I am able, Michel. I promise."

Michel was shaking his head, breathing heavily. "_Liar,_" he whimpered. "_Liar._"

"Michel..." Valjean began but Michel turned tail and fled the room.

Valjean rose to follow, reaching for the crutches by the bed. "Let him be," said an old man a few beds down. "Let him be, son. You did what you could."

Valjean glared at him, "I did _nothing._"

The old man shook his head, "It is better that he learn now how life will be to him for the rest of his days. For boys like him it won't get much better."

"How do _you _know?" Valjean snapped.

"That is what life is for most of us. Nasty and poor. No use filling his head with nonsense about being saved, all it'll do is give him false hope and nothing is so cruel."

* * *

Valjean was awoken early the next morning by a small hand shaking his arm insistently. It took a few moments for him to gather his thoughts and become fully aware of the worried brown eyes boring in to his, "Michel?" He murmured, sitting up.

Michel's arm was unbandaged. _Oh._

"My uncle's here, " he hissed.

The man's voice rang through the ward, "_BOY_!"

Michel's whole body tensed, he pressed a card hard in to Valjean's hand, "You promise you'll come?" He asked, voice trembling.

"I promise," Valjean said (_I will, I will, I will_). "I promise."

Michel nodded once and pushed himself off the bed to scurry out of the ward. when he reached the doorway he turned to glance back, biting his lip. Valjean smiled as reassuringly as possible.

He turned the card over in his hand.

_The Star._

* * *

Valjean's leg takes a further month to heal properly.

He gets a job as a tree pruner, and a farm-hand. He works all day, trudges home and falls in to uneasy sleep. He pays off his debt but he doesn't find Michel.

He's looked, god knows he's looked, but as time goes by he has less and less time to look for him. He asks around, ruffians and fellow workers, but no one knew of a little boy with olive skin and grey eyes.

In a few years a winter will come harsher than most, his nieces and nephews will cry and starve and one day Valjean will pass a bakery and his mouth will water and he'll think about his sister's children. He won't think, not properly.

And the rest as they say...


End file.
